Irene’s Head Tilted, Just Slightly. Enough To Mark The Shift From Disinterest To Something Closer To

Irene gave a small nod, more gesture than answer, like she’d already factored his return into tomorrow’s rhythm.

“They’ll be bagged and waiting,” she said. No fanfare. Just fact.

She reached behind the counter, slid a small paper slip toward him with a neat scribble of initials—hers, not his—across the top. A quiet ledger. A promise.

“You can settle up then,” she added. “I’ll be here early.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just full of the kind of quiet that always seemed to follow her. She didn’t offer a goodbye, didn’t smile, didn’t soften the edges she’d kept all evening. But her gaze lingered a second longer than it had to, steady and level.

“You take care walking home,” she said finally.

Then she turned back to the shelf, already pulling down the next order like the moment had passed cleanly from her hands. And maybe it had.

END.

It was clear that was the closest he’d get to a specific explanation from her. He appreciated what information she’d already offered, at least. Conversation and good company was welcome in a new town, and she was already kind enough to let him linger here when she’d clearly been getting ready to pack up and leave for the day.

“I see, well...” He took another drink from his mug, surprised to see that he’d reached the very bottom of it. “I shouldn’t keep you much longer. Can I come back tomorrow for the rest of the herbs on the old owner’s regular list? I may want to open a regular account here for my personal stores, as well.”

He wasn’t going to continue being a potioneer, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some supplies on hand for emergencies. The unspoken offer for him to return for more conversation was just an added bonus.

Irene watched Shiv’s hands as they worked, and something in her chest went still.

It wasn’t just the methodical precision, the quiet reverence they carried for the steel — it was the way they did it. Like it was more than habit. Like it was memory. The kind that sits in muscle and marrow and doesn’t need language to surface. For a moment, just a brief flicker, her vision blurred at the edges and her father’s hands ghosted over the ones in front of her. That same calm, practiced rhythm. That same kind of quiet focus. Her dad used to say a blade didn’t need to look mean to do damage. It just needed to be respected. Shiv worked like that — like someone who understood what tools could become in the wrong hands, and carried them anyway.

When they smiled, she did too. Small. Unthinking. Like a reflex, not a decision.

She reached for the knife when they offered it, and when they pulled it back just slightly, she didn’t bristle — just raised one brow in mock offense. It was the kind of gesture someone else might’ve earned a sharp reply for. But not Shiv. They were one of the few people who didn’t set her teeth on edge just by existing. Maybe it was the way he never pushed. Never tried to draw blood just to see if she’d flinch. Just anchored himself in the space beside her like it didn’t cost anything to stay. Like someone had told him to watch over her, and he’d decided to take that promise seriously.

She took the blade properly when he passed it a second time and ran her thumb over the newly sharpened edge. A clean hiss of a breath followed — barely audible. “That’s perfect,” she murmured, and meant it.

The blade sat in her hand like it remembered her —like it forgave her for the neglect. Irene ran her thumb along the spine, not the edge, tracing the familiar nicks and wear without looking at it. Her gaze moved on Shiv, steady now, the way you look at someone you’re still trying to figure out but already trust more than you should. “I’m not used to being looked after,” she said, voice quiet but not brittle. “Not anymore. Feels strange. Like wearing someone else’s coat. But... I think I could get used to it. Maybe.” The last word landed softer than the rest, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Then, quieter still, eyes still on the knife, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m not easy to kill. You won’t have to mop anything up.” She glanced up then, something easier behind her eyes. “But I’ll leave a note. Promise. Or a text.” A pause, then, because saying thank you outright always caught like glass in her throat, she offered the closest thing she had — “You’ll know where to look.”

Though unspoken, there is a clear look of recognition towards another item inside Irene’s bag as its set on the table:. a small pouch of dried sigil chalks. Not one of those mundane, painfully-fake brands sold in Crow and Chalice. The real kind of magic their recurring companion carried in her travels, skillfully wielding it in a way that always gently stimulated their hunters' mark and completely captured their attention--

Fortunately, Irene brings their focus back to work before Shiv could further reminisce.

“Definitely not in worst shape...” Shiv parrots under their breath as they take the blade in hand. The hunter gingerly runs their thumb across the edge and lets it snag skin. Clean but dull. This edge should be sharper; it should have sliced their flesh and drawn blood by now. Shiv nods. “Definitely not in worst shape but still handled with great care. Good. I will be sure to do the same.”

Knife sharpening is not a chore but a practiced ritual imbued in Shiv’s being as their hands move on autopilot:

Cloth doused in just enough honing oil prepares the blade. Whetstone, darker coarse grit. Twenty-two degree angle. Moderate pressure. Slide forward, ten times. Sharpening steel. Rinse, dry with separate cleaner handkerchief. Whetstone, light fine grit. Stroke, ten more times. Yes, Appa, ten exactly, I know-

Plenty of meticulous steps to fill the silence, the sharp sound of blade on whetstone leaving room for Irene’s dramatic pauses. “If you ask me, it’s easier to hunt something that is real than not, something that can be understood and given a name. Hunting what refuses to be known or named is much more difficult. Practically impossible”, Shiv scoffs thinking back on the intangible nightmares that torment them. Oh what Shiv would give to stab or shoot or even claw their way out of one of those. “It’d be responsible to say that you should rest and get shut eye when you can, yadadada. But, c’mon. Look at me. Who am I to lecture you about not sleeping?”

“I won’t stop you from training late at night, alone or otherwise. But.” They offer the sharpened blade back to Irene, only to pull it back slightly when she goes to reach for it. Shiv softly smiles. A small jest. “Just be sure to let someone know in case things go south and we need to follow a trail. A note on your fridge or whatever. You have my number.” Shiv offers the blade once again. Earnestly this time.

Irene didn’t flinch when Lucian sat beside her — didn’t look at him right away either. Her gaze stayed on the water, still as glass under the early dusk, the kind of quiet only Graver’s Isle could offer. She hadn’t lit anything yet — no incense, no candles, no circles scratched into the dirt. Just a blade laid across her lap and a half-wrapped strip of gauze beside her. Something about this place made it easier to think. To breathe.

But then his shoulder bumped hers, and that earned him a glance. Dry. Amused. Tired, but not unkind.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “— if you keep sneaking up on me like that, you’re gonna get yourself accidentally stabbed.”

Her eyes flicked down to the knife.

“And then I won’t be able to get my own tattoo.”

A beat. Then the corner of her mouth pulled, just slightly — not quite a smile, but close enough that it counted. The kind that said she didn’t really mind the company, even if she’d never admit it outright.

Her shoulders eased, a little of the edge bleeding off.

“I thought you liked keeping your insides inside, Lucian,” she added, tone dry again. “Could’ve fooled me, creeping up on baby hunters like that.”

She nudged him back lightly — all elbow and bone and the barest hint of playfulness that didn’t quite make it to her expression, but lived in the motion.

She glanced at him again, quieter this time.

“You working on anything out here?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like the water around them hadn’t carried a dozen unanswered thoughts she didn’t want to say aloud. Like Shiv's state. The fact Riven's magic was still lingering around a mind he shouldn't have been in the first place.

For: @ireneclermont Where: Graver's Isle

It wasn't uncommon to find her here, Irene, like some other hunters, seemed to prefer the solitude the isle provided, as opposed to the city. Lucian, himself, preferred to work on his weapons in the peace this place possessed. Not all of them though, some, Lucian preferred to work in the secrecy of his home. In his own makeshift lab.

He approaches slowly, though confident she wouldn't hurt him, and prepared if she tried anyway. Better not to spook a hunter.

There's an easy smile on his lips that lacks the dangerous edge that always promises something infinitely dark for most. A softness invoked in him that comes only from the missing of a sister that's about the same age as Irene. Something that makes him inherently human.

Sitting by her side, he only dares a soft push against her shoulder, a playful tone to his voice as he asks. "Penny for your thoughts?."

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she let her gaze drift past him, toward the corner of the shop where the shadows always settled a little deeper than they should’ve. Not menacing—just aware. The kind of quiet that had weight, like something waiting for its name to be spoken.

Her hand finally moved, tracing the rim of the tin absently before she pushed it back into line. Everything in its place.

“I pay attention,” she said simply. “Doesn’t take much more than that.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He had a look about himv —measured, like someone who knew how to watch without being obvious. Still, there was something under his skin that hadn’t settled right, something his own body hadn’t quite finished telling him yet. She didn’t prod at it. Didn’t need to. That sort of thing always surfaced on its own. The lounge would see to that.

“I go when I need to,” she added, tone neutral. “Not more than that.”

Then, after a pause, “And as for the lounge...”

She let her fingers drop from the shelf and turned her full attention back to him. Eyes sharp, but not unkind. Studying him the way you might study weather patterns—curious, careful, certain that a storm was coming even if the sky still looked clear.

The magic in his blood hums like a low current —quiet, but constant. Not the showy kind that crackles or bends the air, but older, threaded deep, like something inherited rather than learned. Irene can feel it even through the spell she keeps wrapped tight around herself, the one that softens the edges of her own presence, keeps her readable as nothing more than what she appears. It's a precaution, one born of necessity more than secrecy—especially with the way Hunters move these days. But no amount of masking can make her blind to what’s there. His magic isn't dormant, just waiting. Coiled in his bones like it knows what it’s for, even if he doesn’t yet.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said finally. Not cryptic for the sake of it —just certain. “Places like that don’t bother watching unless they’re waiting to be understood.”

He let the information wash over him, sinking in as Irene continued. The lack of any names was mildly frustrating, but she was right about the habits being more important. Gloves, cardamom, and glassware. They could remember that.

There wasn’t any of the concrete details he would prefer to rely on, but that was usually the case with unfamiliar magic. Patience was key, and he practiced it well, even if he did his best to cut the need for it out of his regular routine.

Irene herself was much like that kind of unfamiliar magic, help offered with unknown intentions, unknown mechanisms. He wasn’t one to be thrown by someone's odd demeanor, especially not when Irene was already being generally kind and helpful, but there was still that nagging sense of the unknown. Witches were rarely ominous for no reason, and only a fool would accept an outstretched hand and take it for more than the single step up that it offered.

Everything she said was good to know, but it opened up more questions, the first of which being, “How do you know all of this? About the patrons, I mean. Do you spend a lot of time in the lounge? And what do you mean by it watching me?”

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

She doesn’t look up right away — not until she’s sure Shiv’s breathing hasn’t shifted. The hand she has curled around theirs is loose, careful, but still tethered. Still there. Her other palm stays pressed lightly against their forehead, thumb brushing idle circles in the spaces where fever once bloomed and the dream still holds.

There’s no magic shimmering off her skin, nothing obvious left to trace. But if Juniper looks close enough, she’ll see the cost of it.

The edges of Irene look worn thin — not just tired, but unraveling in the kind of way that happens when sleep becomes an afterthought and the body forgets how to want for itself. The dark circles under her eyes have taken on a kind of permanence, bruised at the corners. Her skin's a touch too pale. Shoulders tight, like they haven't dropped in days. She hasn’t eaten. Juniper knows that already.

But it’s Sage — bounding toward her with that small, determined reach — that finally draws something faint from her; a breath that’s not a sigh, a look that’s not a wince. Just something softer.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Irene murmurs, voice like old parchment, quiet but not cold. She shifts an arm, carefully freeing it so she can scoop Sage up, letting the little raccoon settle warm and insistent against her chest. Her eyes flutter shut for half a second as she leans back, just barely. Not quite rest. Not quite surrender. But close.

Juniper’s voice cuts gently into the silence, and Irene opens her eyes again — slow, steady. She watches her lower the food to the table like it's some quiet ritual, the way she does every day now. It hits her, again, that quiet kind.

“You don’t have to do that,” Irene says after a beat. Her voice is hoarse, roughened by disuse and wear. “I hope you know that.”

But she doesn’t push it. Doesn’t turn it into guilt or refusal. There’s no sharpness in the words, just fatigue wrapped in something… just grateful. It lingers unspoken between them.

Her hand drifts back to Shiv’s again, grounding herself. She doesn’t say how long she’s been keeping the spell woven tight around them. Doesn’t mention the tremor that runs faint and quiet through her wrist every now and then, the kind that comes from channeling too long without pause. She doesn’t need to.

“I’m managing,” she says finally. Barely above a whisper. A tired smile ghosts across her face, faint but real, eyes flicking toward Sage, who’s now curled half into the fabric of her sweater like she belongs there. "And Shiv's fine. Enjoying a day at the beach."

It’s not a lie.

Her gaze returns to Juniper then — not guarded, not armored. Just open, just tired. And maybe a little surprised she’s still being looked after, too. "How are you?"

When: June 10th, afternoon Where: Crow & Chalice Who: @ireneclermont

Juniper was spread pretty thin since the storm, she was splitting her time between the cafe construction and Theras shop. She didn’t know why this hunter was important to Thera. It left a bit of a sour taste in her mouth honestly. But she trusted the older witch. She would just need to keep a close eye. 

Another close eye she needed to keep was on Irene. To say Juniper was surprised when the apothecary showed up was an understatement. She worked some kind of magic and should have been on her way. But she stayed, and it gave Juniper a chance to observe. One of the first things she observed was how tense Irene was, all the time. Her relaxed attitude was less relaxed and more anxiously apathetic. 

She also hardly ate, spending hours in the back of the shop with the hunter, not a bite to eat, not a sip to drink. So it became a routine. On her way between stores after making sure the day's work was going well she would pick up lunch for the three of them. Irene never asked. Juniper never minded. 

Today she brought Sage with her. The weather was nice and the critter was getting restless in the apartment. Juniper couldn’t blame her. Walking into the shop she dropped Thera's lunch in the fridge before heading upstairs to the guest room. A room she had once stayed in herself. Immediately Sage was off her shoulders and approaching Irene. Arms up asking to be lifted. 

“How are you both doing today?” She asked as she entered. Setting their lunches down on a side table and taking a seat herself with a heavy sigh. She knew the hunter was doing well, between the three of them he was probably doing better than expected. She was more asking Irene, but didn't want to be too direct.

( jessica alexander / female / she/her) — IRENE CLERMONT has been living in Port Leiry for 6 MONTHS. They currently work as a SHOP ASSISTANT AT TUMATARAU APOTHECARY , and are 26 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH/HUNTER or if they’re connected to THE BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VINDICTIVE and SECRETIVE, but can also be RESILIENT and COMPASIONATE.

Connections / Pinterest

Name: Irene Clermont Occupation: Apothecary Assistant & Brotherhood Hunter Age & Birthday: Twenty-Six | August 15, 1999 Sexuality: Straight Species: Witch (Mirrormind, aspiring Weaver) - Currently a Hunter Hometown: Columbus, Ohio Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Irene is calculating, quietly intense, emotionally closed off but not cold. She’s fiercely loyal to the few she trusts, slow-burning in her grief and rage. Tactical, self-disciplined, and emotionally guarded, she is a survivor before anything else—but her anger runs deep.

TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

"They called her dangerous. And they were right."

Born into the Circle of the Reverie —an insular coven of prophecy, dreams, and memory— Irene was always the wrong kind of magic. A child cloaked in quiet, feared for the way her eyes lingered too long, for the way her presence stirred old feelings. They whispered about her blood. About how her mother had lied. About how no one knew who her father was.

But Irene did.

She found out as a teenager: her father wasn’t some mystery, but a hunter —skilled, tactical, and very much alive. She met him in secret under moonlight and ash, learning to fight with her hands and her heart. He didn’t ask her to shrink. He made her sharp. Loved. Seen. And when her magic began to twist—when she realized she could pull best or worst memories to the surface and make others live them again—he was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

But the Circle was. And fear makes monsters of the devout.

The truth came out. And then everything burned. Her father’s location was leaked. Another coven took him—tortured him—killed him. Her mother, complicit in the secrecy, was punished until her mind broke open. Irene found her father’s body cold. Her mother no longer knew her name.

Then came exile.

Six months ago, Irene arrived in Port Leiry, drifting quiet beneath its fog-covered skyline. She tends an apothecary now—mixing poultices for strangers and tucking herbs into brown paper while her mother stares at walls she doesn’t understand. But at night, Irene hunts. Not for coin. Not for chaos. She hunts the witches who destroyed her family—one by one. The ones who killed her father. The ones who made her mother scream. The ones who stood back and smiled at their pain.

Her magic is unstable—raw, frayed by grief and sharpened by rage. As a Mirrormind, Irene crafts illusions in the waking world—twisting what others see, what they believe, what they feel. She can cloak herself in beauty or fear, turn hallways into labyrinths, or smiles into threats. It’s misdirection at its most intimate, seduction, deception, and control laced into a glance.

But Irene is more than that. She was born different—something the Circle feared from the beginning.

She can do what most Mirrorminds cannot: not just create illusions, but resurrect emotion itself. With a touch or focused gaze, she can pull someone's strongest memory to the surface —grief, joy, terror—and force them to relive it in unbearable clarity. The scent, the sound, the pain of it. As real as the first time. She doesn’t just show you your past—she makes you drown in it. It’s a rare, unspoken branch of Mirrormind magic that even the most devout fear to name.

Now, Irene trains as a Weaver —learning to slip into the minds of her enemies in sleep. To plant nightmares that linger like bruises. To stitch fear into their rest. Weavers are artisans of the subconscious—quiet, slow-burning retribution —and Irene wants that precision. That patience. To haunt before she harms.

Her magic is unstable—frayed at the edges, easily overwhelmed by emotion. The deeper Irene feels, the harder it is to control. Grief tangles the threads. Anger burns through illusion. And when she loses control, her powers lash out in unpredictable bursts—sometimes triggering someone else’s worst memory without meaning to, sometimes trapping her in a vision that isn’t hers. That’s why she’s learning to become a Weaver: not just for the power, but for the discipline. Weaving requires patience, precision, detachment—all the things she’s had ripped away. If she can master that control, she can make her pain purposeful. Turn the chaos into something quiet. Deadly. Lasting.

Because revenge isn’t just a blade. Sometimes it’s a dream you can’t wake from.

She doesn’t fight loud. She fights smart. And she fights only those who deserve it.

Once, she was just a child. Curious. Kind. Too soft for the world she was born into.

Irene doesn’t make noise. She makes consequences.

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She barely sleeps. Between taking care of her mother, Brotherhood work, and pushing herself to control her magic, Irene exists in a state of constant exhaustion. Nighttime is for training. She runs drills in silence, practices weaving on scraps of cloth and empty walls, trying to thread dreams into something she can hold. She doesn’t rest until her body forces her to.

Her mother’s sleep matters more than her own. Irene’s primary motivation for becoming a Weaver isn’t power—it’s mercy. Her mother, fractured and fading, is haunted by memories the Circle forced into her. Irene believes if she can learn to weave well enough, she can soothe her mother’s dreams, give her a few hours of peace. She hasn’t succeeded yet, and every failure feels like a personal betrayal.

She avoids mirrors. Her Mirrormind magic has backfired before—turning a glance into someone else’s memory, or her reflection into a moment from her own past. When she’s overwhelmed, reflections can feel like traps.

She used to laugh all the time. When she was younger, when Riven was around, Irene was a bright, warm presence—curious, clingy, always offering the last bite of her treat. She was the kind of child who believed in promises and tried to keep them all. Sometimes, when she sees him again, that ache creeps in—of who she could’ve been if things had gone differently.

Her most precious possession is a silver-edged knife. Slender, balanced, and etched with quiet runes, it was the last thing her father ever gave her. He said it was forged from hunter’s steel and carried through generations. She wears it at her thigh like a second spine. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a vow, a memory, a tether to the person who believed in her first.

She keeps a small box of things that don’t belong to her. A child’s drawing. A coin from the Brotherhood’s first offering. A feather she once pulled from her father’s coat. None of it is magical, but she treats it like it is. These are her anchors when her magic spirals, her grief surges, or she forgets what softness feels like.

She’s cast a cloaking spell over her magic—layered, meticulous, and laced with intent so fine it hums beneath her skin. It took weeks to perfect, built from forgotten sigils and quiet hours hunched over worn parchment, every line a thread in the weave of her protection. The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate strangeness it can't control, and Irene knows too well what happens to witches who shimmer too brightly. So she dims herself carefully. No flare, no scent of power, nothing for the gifted or monstrous to catch hold of. It’s not just concealment—it’s survival. A hidden pulse beneath her heartbeat. She checks it constantly, reinforces it like a cracked wall. Even when she’s alone, she whispers its binding words. Just in case.

She almost smiles at that — almost. It doesn’t quite make it past her mouth, gets caught in the corner like it’s not sure it belongs there. The bag still digs into her palm, but she doesn’t shift, doesn’t ease the pressure. Let it bite.

"You talk too much," she says, quiet and without heat. Like she’s telling him something he should already know.

Her gaze flicks away just once — toward the ocean — not because she’s afraid to look at him, but because the sea says more with silence than he does with all those cheap words. She listens for a beat. The crash and pull. A rhythm she’s known longer than she’s known her own name. It doesn't scare her. Not really.

“The water doesn’t ask for your permission,” she says after a moment, still watching the waves. “It just takes. That’s the difference.”

She finally shifts the bag to her other side, fingers tingling from the weight. She doesn’t mind the pins and needles. They make sense. Pain usually does.

Her eyes cut back to him then, flat and sharp like a blade that’s been sitting too long in salt air. “And I’m not looking to be liked. Least of all by a storm.”

A pause, long enough to be intentional.

“But if it wants to take me, it’s gonna have to earn it.”

         the wind starts lashing out at him, sharp and cutting. it whistles, even more piercing, it might just make his ears bleed. a punishment for sticking this out, pain to make a smarter man turn back, to make the animal fear the lash. césar doesn’t give a fuck. he likes it, the way it curls around him, seethes, the way it’s fury wrapped into something natural. he likes the taste of it on his tongue, the smell. he likes it. he’s sick, and he’s twisted, and he’s cursed. but in the middle of danger, with adrenaline begging its way back into his system, at least he feels alive.

         “ storm doesn’t like me. ”  césar ignores his choice of her words. of course she’s here, he’s here. everyone’s fucking crazy. whoop de doo. she knows it, he knows it. so what the hell are they still doing here? he keeps talking to fill the time. his boredom, at the center stage of concern. primarily.  “ the sea never does, ‘s not a … reciprocal thing. ”  damn, chiquita’s got him breaking out the 50 cent words, or whatever. the water’s where he’s been for two years, that same water has held him times when there weren’t hands to do so, and, besides, that when there was a brother who did. who always did. but césar’s got nothing to do with that.  “ silly lil’ sea bitches always end up dead, anyways. ‘s prolly no good, to be liked by the storm. ”  before, it had been just aimless, bored musing. now, he looks at her, judgy eyes and all.  “ you don’t seem to be the biggest fan of it though, the water? ”